A Silver Mirror

by Roberta Gellis

  “I do not wish to be released,” Barbara assured him with a little more warmth than she meant to show. “Women have not the same kind of pride as men. Had taking you as my husband been horrible to me, I would not have agreed for the sake of keeping a promise I did not mean to make.”

  “But you did agree.” Most of the tension lines had eased in Alphonse’s face and he smiled as Barbara nodded.

  “Although I spoke in jest,” she said, “I did give the matter some thought last night, and it seemed to me that, old friend that you are, there might be advantages to marrying you.”

  “Advantages you did not see before I asked?”

  There was a growing assurance in his voice and Barbara began to feel worried. It might not be easy to keep this man, who surely knew too much about women, off balance.

  “I never thought of it before you asked.” She took her hand out of his. “I am hungry, and Princess Eleanor will wonder what has become of me if I do not break my fast with the other ladies. And it has just occurred to me that if you go and break your fast with Queen Eleanor, you would be able to tell her about these plans. I do not think she can forbid the marriage, but she does have some claim on me as a lady of her household.”

  “Well thought of. If Queen Eleanor goes weeping to Marguerite that I have stolen her lady without consideration for her, I will have both my aunts around my neck.” Alphonse recaptured her hand and tucked it into his arm. He seemed about to say something but did not, his brow furrowing in thought as he led her to the door of the church.

  ”A word of warning,” Barbara said as they stepped out into the rosy light of a beautiful morning.

  She paused and looked around. A cool breeze had driven away the stench of festering filth, and the colors of the garments of the ladies and gentlemen making their way toward their morning meal in the great hall were luminous in the early sunlight. Barbara could not help wondering whether it had really been gray and sticky all yesterday or if the shadow in her soul had befouled the weather.

  “Warning?” Alphonse repeated a trifle stiffly.

  “If Queen Eleanor thinks I desire you,” Barbara said, “she might try to prevent our marrying. She is usually kind, but just now she is so hurt and frightened herself that I fear she wishes to strike back at the world. And I am the daughter of Leicester’s ally.”

  A trace of anxiety made Barbara’s voice too flat and Alphonse cocked his head at her. “I will tell her that you have accepted me because you wish to use me as a defense against the unwelcome advances of Guy de Montfort.”

  “She might believe that,” Barbara agreed slowly. “If more important matters have not driven it from her mind, she will remember that I was annoyed by Guy’s attentions.”

  She pursed her lips, as she considered Queen Eleanor’s reaction. The temptation when her lips formed a bow was too great. Alphonse caught her chin and kissed her. She stood rigid, not resisting but responding no more than a statue. He stepped back, angry at himself for going too fast, and turned his head, thus missing the way Barbara put her hand on the wall behind her for support. When he looked back she did not seem to have moved at all and she simply stared at him without any expression.

  “Well,” he said briskly, pretending he was not distressed by her lack of response, “Aunt Eleanor is so bound up in her own woes just now that I do not believe she will think of any objections. If she does, of course, I will point out that, as a younger son, I have little of my own, and your manor of Cruas is rich, well managed, and convenient to my property. If you remember, that was how I knew Thouzan le Thor. The income will make a welcome addition to my purse, a sound reason to choose a wife.”

  “Yes, of course,” Barbara said vaguely.

  Alphonse blinked with shock. He had expected a violent reaction to his casual remark that the income of her manor would be a welcome addition to his purse. He had said it only to take a little revenge on her, to bring a little life into her frozen face. But her eyes had no color at all, and they were so wide open that a rim of white showed all around the dark irises.

  “Barbe—” he began, his head suddenly full of horrors. Fathers could be too fond or some other man could have hurt her. But a kiss? In a public place? How could that freeze her with fear?

  She did not wait for him to find soothing words. “I am so hungry,” she said, looking past him. “I will go now. No, do not come with me. Go and speak to Queen Eleanor.”

  Chapter Seven

  Barbara’s parting words let Alphonse breathe again and lifted the horrors off his spirit. If she was urging him to speak to Eleanor, she intended to marry him no matter what she had felt when he kissed her. Now that he could think, he realized her voice was too calm for her stillness to have been caused by revulsion. It was more as if she had suddenly remembered something so overwhelming that she had lost all consciousness of the present time and place.

  Another man’s kiss? Alphonse, who had not been a prey to jealousy since his first love had betrayed him when he was still a silly boy, suddenly felt the fangs of the green-eyed monster. Why had she yielded without a struggle to his demand that she keep her word and marry him? Not because she cared about being forsworn, she had made that clear. Had Guy de Montfort done more than pursue her? Had he caught her and had his father sent her to France to bear the child in secret?

  Having asked himself this melodramatic question, Alphonse began to chuckle. How ridiculous. When one came to bear a child secretly in France, one did not come in the company of a princess and present oneself to two queens. Besides, it was more likely that Leicester would welcome a marriage between his third son and Norfolk’s only child, even if his lecherous son would not. In any case, Leicester would not take a chance of mortally offending Norfolk in the present political situation by rushing his betrayed daughter into exile. Barbe was not a ditchling seller of favors, not even a common knight’s daughter. Had she been with Guy’s child, Leicester would not only have agreed to marriage, he would have insisted on it. And between them, he and Norfolk would have found lands enough to cram into the maw of young Guy to make him willing.

  Alphonse went briskly down the steps, shaking his head over the way love turned a man’s mind to thin gruel. The most important aspect of his last few minutes with Barbe was not that she had not responded to his kiss. What could he expect her to do in the church porch? It was significant that she had urged him to go to Eleanor and smooth the way to their marriage. He was hungry, too, and it occurred to him that he had to see Hugh as well as his Aunt Eleanor. Hugh clearly loved Barbe very much, and she almost certainly returned that affection, thus Hugh Bigod would be a strong ally and a bad enemy in persuading Barbe to take her vows with joy.

  In any case it was useless for him to rack his brains about Barbe’s reaction. Most likely she had only been surprised, and perhaps shocked and annoyed, that he should kiss her in public. No doubt when the shock passed, she would suddenly remember what he had said about her manor and demand a promise from him signed in blood that he would not interfere with the way the manor was managed and would turn the income into her hands. He chuckled once more as he climbed the steps to the hall of Queen Eleanor’s house.

  Alphonse was right only about Barbara’s remembering what he had said about her estate after her shock passed. When she did remember, all she felt was a rush of pleasure at how clever he was. To hear that Barbara would be deprived of the income of her dower property probably would seem like a “fitting punishment” to Eleanor. The queen was not a cruel woman, she would herself have protested if she thought Barbara would be reduced to rags or starvation, but she would know that the deprivation would not be severe. Alphonse would provide Barbara with everything she needed—all the proud lady would need to do was ask. When Barbara thought of that, she smiled. She knew Alphonse did not want her income. Either of his aunts could have provided him with a far richer wife. But it would indeed seem appropriate to Queen Eleanor for the daughter of a rebel to lose her “freedom”.

  However, when
Barbara first brushed by Alphonse and walked quickly to Princess Eleanor’s house, she was in no state to consider the question of her dower rights. All she wanted was a place to sit down before her shaking knees gave way, and the only thought in her head, as she slipped into the hall and braced herself against the wall, was that it must have been a special dispensation of mercy that left her so surprised when Alphonse’s lips touched hers that she felt nothing. Only after he had removed his mouth from hers did desire flood her. God knew what would have happened if they had not been in the open church porch. That and the memory of the people passing, although all she could see was his face, had allowed her to resist the urge to kiss him back.

  If she had, her whole plan would be in ruins. She would have betrayed her love for him. Or would she? Barbara knew from what she had heard—it was quite surprising how many ladies offered her confidences in the hope that she would spill her own secrets in return—that love and lust did not necessarily go hand in hand. Barbara had listened and looked wise, but she had had no secrets to tell. Now she regretted her lack of experience with lust. Too fearful of being caught in the trap that had held her mother, she had avoided kissing in corners and assignations in the woods. Her amorous activities had been confined to words, looks, and sighs exchanged in public. That had been amusing, but the faint stirrings of excitement had been easily quelled, nothing like the attack of ravening hunger, the heat, hollowness, and fluttering in her belly that had sprung to life at Alphonse’s kiss.

  She had even told him she was hungry. Barbara suddenly giggled, but then sobered. Could she allow him to see her desire for him, or would that end his “hunt” for her love? There would be nothing funny about losing his interest and his desire for her. Barbara knew she needed advice, but there was no one she could ask. Queen Eleanor had held her husband, but King Henry was no lecher. He lusted after beauty in art and music not in women.

  Princess Eleanor… Barbara considered the princess. Prince Edward certainly loved her. His voice and expression changed when he spoke to her or she to him. Eleanor had been married to Edward as a child of ten when he was fifteen, so he could not have fallen passionately in love with her at first sight, as in the romances. And although fathers did not hide daughters from him, as in the stories that were told of his grandfather, King John, Edward certainly had played with the ladies of the court and with others less elegant. Yet after he married Eleanor, his gallantries to women, except for common politeness, had ended. Why? What had Eleanor done? I could ask, Barbara thought, not why Edward was faithful. The princess would say it was her husband’s great kindness and perfect nature. I could ask what Eleanor does to make her husband happy. The princess would be delighted to talk about Edward.

  Barbara started forward into the hall without noticing that the ladies who had attended mass with the princess and the queen in her private chapel were coming in at that moment. One collided with her and exclaimed, “Oh, I am sorry. Did I hurt you?”

  “Not at all,” Barbara replied, although she had cried out in surprise. “I should have looked where I was going.”

  Her voice drew the attention of Lady Jeanne. “You have missed mass,” she said severely, “The princess noticed your absence.”

  “I attended mass in the church,” Barbara said, smiling sweetly. “Thank you very much for mentioning Princess Eleanor’s concern. I will go to her at once and explain what happened.”

  On her way to make her curtsy to Princess Eleanor, who was seated at a table set up on the dais in the hall, Barbara gathered up bread and cheese and wine, which she could eat while standing. For fast-breaking only the princess’s table was set up. Others ate indoors or out, seated or standing, as best suited the tasks of the day.

  As she had assumed, Barbara had no trouble inducing Princess Eleanor to talk about the early years of her marriage to Edward. In fact, the princess was so eager to recall those happy years that she invited Barbara to sit down beside her. Unfortunately Barbara soon found that what Eleanor had to tell her was of very little value to her. She would have had to become a different person to take the advice. Eleanor was by nature sweet, gentle, and yielding. Barbara knew she was more tart than sweet, and she had been told often enough that she was abrasive and stubborn as rock.

  One piece of information Eleanor provided was very interesting. Barbara knew the consummation of the princess’s marriage had been long delayed because of Eleanor’s youth. Now, bright-eyed with joyful memory, which had temporarily relieved her present fears, Eleanor rambled on about her husband’s kindness, saying at last that it had made him hesitate to ask of her more than she wished to give. But Edward had finally confessed he was displeased with her passive yielding when they coupled. Not that he wished her to refuse, she admitted, with a faint, genuine smile. He wanted her to participate.

  She had, of course, spoken her doubts about sins of the flesh, Eleanor whispered confidentially, but Edward had told her that what he asked was no sin, for he did not ask it for the sake of pleasure. God bade all his creatures to be fruitful and multiply, and that was especially the duty of the heir to a throne. Some priests did not understand, he had pointed out, that unless she helped, she would not get with child.

  Five years had passed between the consummation of the prince’s marriage and the conception of his first child, but Barbara had heard too much talk among women to believe their active participation was needed to get them pregnant. Barbara’s doubt must have shown on her face.

  The princess leaned even closer to her. “But it was true,” she said earnestly. “There was no sin in it, for what my dearling taught me to do made his seed come forth more strongly and so I did get with child.”

  There were a number of odd noises in the background that Barbara knew quite well were smothered laughter and, possibly, strangled cynicisms, but she paid no heed. It had occurred to her that desire might be quenched in a man of tender heart—and Edward, while not in general soft-hearted, was certainly tender toward his wife—by what seemed like fear or indifference. Also, a few actions beyond simple compliance, especially those that might seem accidental at first, might lend spice to what would be to Alphonse too common and familiar an activity.

  So Barbara asked eagerly, “What was it that your husband desired of you?”

  But, recalled out of her own sweet memories, Eleanor looked troubled. “Is it fitting that I tell you such things, you who are a maiden?”

  Barbara made a quick calculation. Alphonse must have already broken the news to the queen, so it was safe to tell the princess even if she rushed right out to talk over the idea with her mother-by-marriage. Princess Eleanor would be pleased to receive the confidence, and she would have something pleasant about which to think and gossip.

  “I ask,” Barbara said, lowering her voice even further, although neither of them had been speaking loudly, “because I may not be a maiden very long,” and explained about her French property and being in King Louis’s gift.

  Eleanor smiled again, this time with a touch of archness. “And you have no one at all in mind that you would like to marry?”

  Many thought of the princess as simple, but Barbara reminded herself that Eleanor’s nature was simple, not her mind. “I did not think of marriage at all when I came back to France,” Barbara replied quite truthfully. “Then I only wished to escape Leicester’s son, whose attentions I knew could not be wholesome for me.”

  The princess stiffened and drew back. “You did not wish to marry a de Montfort?” she asked with a lifted brow. Clearly she thought Barbara was lying to make herself seem less a rebel. “I heard that Guy’s mother felt you were not the equal of her son.”

  Barbara smiled. The disdainful remark, made deliberately to quash her pretension, was the princess’s revenge because she thought Barbara took her for a gullible fool. “Madam,” she said, “I am sure that is true, but the question of marriage did not arise. Guy never suggested he wanted me for his wife, and I had no desire at all to be any de Montfort’s whore. You know well
enough that I was born out of wedlock. That state is not a happy one, even for such as I, loved and recognized by my father. I will never lay that burden on a child of my body.”

  “I am very sorry,” the princess whispered. “I did not know Guy planned such evil.” Tears rose in her eyes. “I never guessed any of them planned such evil. I thought Leicester a kind and honorable man, and yet—”

  “But he is kind and honorable, madam.” Barbara hastened to interrupt before Princess Eleanor converted Guy’s lechery into a murderous intent toward Edward on Leicester’s part. “Leicester is too fond a father to see ill in his son,” she explained, “so he assumed Guy’s intent was marriage. That is why he sent me away. He wished to spare both his son and me any pain. But when I came here, an old friend who took care of my affairs years ago when my father left me here in France with Queen Marguerite, discovered my problem. He suggested that I would be safe from molestation as his wife. Also, his lands and mine march well together, so I agreed that if King Louis was willing, I would accept his suit to me.”

  “A friend of your father’s?” The kind princess began to look worried again. She knew she had been greatly favored of God when her brother found a royal match for her with a prince only five years her senior. Sixteen years separated Queen Eleanor and King Henry, and there were marriages far more disparate than that. Some were happy despite the difference in ages, but others were not.

  It was easy to read the train of thought that must follow the question the princess had asked, and Barbara smiled again. “He is not as old as my father, and, madam, I am maiden in body, but not in years.”

  “Then you desire—” Eleanor looked a little shocked at what she had been about to say. No woman should desire anything but to be obedient to her guardian or overlord. “I mean,” she amended herself, “you are satisfied to accept King Louis’s decision in this matter?”

  “I know Sieur Alphonse to be kind, and I am comfortable with him,” Barbara said carefully, and was rewarded by a warm smile. Princess Eleanor approved heartily of friendship and comfort as the basis of marriage. “So I would accept him,” Barbara went on, “if he is King Louis’s choice, but—”